Odorless Beige, the baron of Shirechester, ruled with an iron stomach, but when all the people saw that he knew how to tie a tie, and when they learned that water could enwetten things, and when the stories of the battles in Bal-Bal came in via carrier-pigeon-motorcycle-gang, they were so moved that they wanted to try all of the above themselves, and so they ordered some ties online, and they thought up some rain gods to pray to, and they decreed a lot of barondoms to fight over, for the folk of Hoglistwune had brains of kitty litter or something, and once they latched onto an idea, they'd let it go as easily as sneezing on a buffet, and with all that modern guarding technology in place, that was harder than breaking into a deacon's aquarium. However, they were foiled in their ambitions, for the ties wouldn't get here for a week, and gods don't exist—but the battle? That was a nowable event.

And so the battle was joined, and after a brief and forgettable qualifier round knocked out most of the pacifists, old folks, and children, only the best—give or take—remained. This tier included the likes of Claymore-Boxcutter the Elder, who used to work airing out clown shoes at the police station, until he found all those leprechauns, and now commanded a veritable platoon of Cinderella lore buffs. Everyone who was left-handed only on Sundays followed him, and not in an idiomatic or political sense—I mean they followed him. Poor guy couldn't get a moment's peace, even in the bathroom, the most sacred sanctuary to a jeweller. Then there was Esophagus Fradelmeister, the first man in the city to use pancakes as sandwich bread, and who was the Marquis of Main Street—but that's an old-fashioned nicking name from his days in the drag show, not a legitimate peerage. The times being what they were, however, he felt it was high time to formalize his claim. Marquis was deeply enplaced in the alphabet, though, so the only followers he got were leftovers from the bowling alley and as semi-translucent as an obituary—not hardly. They'd have a real time of it noticing a fledgling narwhal, let alone a full-sized snowman replica. And lastly—well, not lastly, there's still like a bajillion more, but I'm stopping at three—there was Nantial Coperstack, who'd amassed something between a consortium and a roving band of sleeveless bird jugglers and semi-retired potato peelers. They weren't good; they weren't great; but they were mid-plan-concoction. That's as good an excuse for a scene as any.

So, one of the wisest fighters in Nantial's collected armada was Brick Hoppistan, who had once been a waiter, but that wasn't uncommon and wasn't worth mentioning. As they were gathered in the plannage room—Nantial's dad's pool house—Brick suggested, “Well, seems we're at odds, and so to even them out, I propose battle be done, and the winner thus makes the choices from thence!”

One of the strongest scholars in Nantial's gathered battalion was Original Chicken, a foolish paper-eater, who looked up from his vivisection and said, “Weren't we already doing that?”

“Yes, but without a clear plan!” said Nantial. Now, she was stalwart, and had wanted to be a baron ever since she was little, and she'd even grown a proper baronial mustache to twirl villainously when she had do-gooders at her mercy, so whenever the paparazzi came by, she made sure her fingers were busy to give them a good show. Uneager to bear delays in seeing her heart's desire come to pass, she said, “An opportunity like this only comes once a week, and I don't want to see it spoiled! So, let's hear your plan!”

“It's merely a proposal,” said Brick, “and hardly a done deal!”

“Then,” said Nantial, “the deal's done! There's none! Instead, we'll just meet in battle—whoever wins shall be called the winner, and the rest will do the calling!”

“That's as fair as leaping,” said Brick as he dipped his test results into the yogurt.

“Oh! Get stoked, folks!” said Nantial. “They called us underdogs, but we'll show them we're overcats! They think we can't get a letter into an envelope? They think we don't know jam from jelly? Well, they'll soon see some conquest done right, and then who'll be putting mousetraps in the cookie jar!” Nantial wrang her hands and fired up the printing press.

They put their plan into effect swiftly—or, their proposal, rather. Sorry. Here's the gist: the other would-be barons were barely worth sparring with, so the Nantialites made their target Odorless Beige himself. They knew he had made a fortress on the back of a parachuting buffalo, and so they planned to set up an irresistible target for the 'falo: a factory-sealed DVD copy of Blade Punner starring Tschoviosko Celebrato and Didney Freeme. By placing it inside a parabolic mirror, the rules of embargoed relativity stated that it would cause an inversal of localized gravity, turning the movie into an unstabilized super-singularity which would react to any observation or measurement with apocalyptic implosion of regional physicality, and tunneling a wormhole into a backwards dimension, rendering all information caught in the time loop to be unknowable to our present universe.

“This,” said Brick, “is beyond mere embargoed relativity—this is four-way time-suspension!”

“Keep your atheism to yourself,” said Nantial. “Focus on getting that 'falo as wrapped as an east-coast waterslide isn't!”

Original, who also handled the budget, said, “Is this a speciation event? I'm going to need about three talents of older cheese to break the waterline.” With concern, he weighed an abacus—it was less than a year old, as he feared.

“Whatever the cost,” said Nantial, pulling a sombrero from her pocket and rewithering some oak roots.

So Nantial, Brick, and Original built a gigantic robot penguin with laser beam eyes and I-beam legs and named it Franco de la Rocca, and they gave Franco a backpack so they could all climb inside and tag along as it went a-battling, but Franco, upon receiving the backpack, assumed it was late for school, and so crammed some books and rulers into the 'pack, and then took off at a sprint, trampling over a hundred forests, two hundred parks, three hundred video arcades, and two lighthice en route to the school, and when it got there, it met its old rival, Parvadi Boscillo, the Paintreaper.

“I had hoped it wouldn't come to this,” said Parvadi, enspying Franco on its approach.

“You think the maritime division left me lossless?” said Franco. “Oh! You grosser. You can stand aside, now. Let's part at once.”

“And be slighted?” said Parvadi. “Nay. I settle my score this day.”

Franco, knowing the inevitable, could only sigh.

Nantial, peering through 'noculars over the rim of the backed pack, said, “What's a treaper?”

Then and now Parvadi expressed the only type of knowable relationship, and whipped out an aircraft carrier and shot ten ladders at Franco, but this was no more effective than a warning shot, for Franco was equipped with anti-ladder radar detection systems, and knew about the ladders since before Parvadi was born, and so when it dodged adroitly, it was the most adroit dodge anyone had ever adroitly dodged. Franco was made of gold, by the way, I don't know if I mentioned that, and it also had a lot of extra parts installed, and so, in a fit of paraplasm, it took the extra parts and made a smaller Franco, with lazy eyes and I have legs, and called it Francette—Franco Jr. was taken.

“Since the time of the gods,” said Parvadi, “your existence has been a thorn in my eye, and now, here you are, in open mockery of our unimpeachable scripture.”

“Speak not of gods,” said Franco, and made to say more, but stopped itself. It, too, would speak not of gods.

“You could have been like them,” said Parvadi.

“This is impetuousness!” said Francette. “You long for godhood so much? Die and try anew!”

Francette called the sporting goods store—it's a global chain but in this region I think they're called North Mountain? I don't remember. Anyway, it called them and asked about guns, which they had in an abundance—shotguns, rifles, handguns—“handguns,” as opposed to all the ones you use your feet to operate? Can you imagine such a thing? Well, therein lay the genius of the spheniscidae, for it could indeed imagine such a thing, and so it hung up on North Mountain before it even began to call, and started a home business out of its garage, exploiting the opening in the market and selling footguns. Feetgun? Marketing could work that out, there's probably a catchy slogan about it, like, “Feetgun are neat fun!” or something. Anyway, Francette tinkered with the design for months until it had a working prototype, and took it to an orphanage to show it to investors, and it was a smashing success in every possible way. It made the news, and soon Francette had all kinds of metallurgists and ambassadors at its garage door, and they moved the garage to the top of a factory, and it became one with the factory, a wise head on a mighty body, and the factory began churning out a complete line of footguns. Semi-automatics, full auto, home defense, hunting, orphan-hunting, opening a stubborn jar of pickles—you name it, there was a footgun for it. Even shooting Parvadi dead.

Francette fired one round from the SPD Mk. I and it shot Parvadi dead. The paint would never be reaped again.

“Oh, I get it,” said Nantial.

Franco offered a prayer to its fallen foe, a moment to mark the end to an era, and finally went to school, right on time—for the dismissal bell! Oh no!

“Where do you think you're going?” said Mrs. Rope, the homeroom teacher, who caught Franco by the ear and gave it a, um... an earful. Yeah, live with that one forever.

“Ow! Lemme go, Mrs. R!” said Franco, squirming rapscallionishly. “I'm goin' home! That was the last bell!”

“The backwards walk doesn't fool me,” said Mrs. Rope, who had been fooled by the backwards walk plenty of times. “You missed the entire day of class! You're going to detention, kiddo!”

With that, Mrs. Rope threw Franco into detention, where there was nothing to do but watch the clock or do nothing. The clock struck zero, the only number on its face, denoted ten thousand thousand times, in infinite increments, spanning the life of the world from beginning to end. Each of its million hands spun a different direction and read a thousand digits, and there was no end to that which had begun. Time stopped, time ran all at once, nothing but memory and hope remained, while they lost all meaning. Franco stood in the corner until its atomic core grew weary, then wary, then wore out, leaked out of all its ears and eyes and mouths, and Franco rusted and dusted and blew away on the wind.

This had nothing to do with the Blade Punner thing so Nantial and the others left to go get started on that.

Now, that was just one of the many baronical battleages that were transpiring throughout Hoglistwune. It was a Thursday, apparently, and people were getting antsy for the weekend. But due to the outbreak of combat, the local bus service was highly disrupted and no one could get to work on time anymore.

“I am one of the many who can't get to work on time,” said Fellin O'Flakers. No one was listening. He checked his watch, realized he'd be as late as a robot penguin made of gold on its way to school, and gave up. He said, “I suppose I'll battle for a baronshire instead.”

Harvbold the bus driver drew near with a chainsaw, chain mail, and a chain letter, and said, “That's as problematic as tripling the prime number at the center of the endocrine system!” Now, this might seem like an outlandish battlecry, but he was from Edgetack, and they did things differently out there.

Fellin fended off Harvbold's attack by subscribing to the newspaper, an event so unusual nowadays that almost two people came to gawk at him. This was a lot by Fellin's standards, so he went to the nearest North Mountain to buy some spray to disperse them. The head merchant for the day, Leaky Gamble, saw him come in, and welcomed him with a feast of cake, soy sauce, more cake, and another cake.

“It's your lucky day,” said Gamble, “'cuz I've got some kids to marry off. Buy one, get two free!”

“It's spray I'm after,” said Fellin, “as I'm already tall enough for the roller coaster.”

But Gamble grew dark and growled, “You turn down my generous offer?” He enroared, and gradually turned into a submarine. “We could have united our baronhoods! We must have an alliance if we're to stand against the southern tribes! No—you plot against me? Well, have at you!” Gamble began to fire nuclear missiles everywhere, but not to worry, because Spotle Brock, the pixie princess, was nearby, and caught all the nuclear missiles in her baseball glove, and then put them somewhere safe, that only she knew about, so that it wasn't an outstanding issue or some kind of unresolved loose end at all, and definitely wouldn't come back to bite everyone in the ass later.

“I'm going to take a class in turkey algebra,” said Spotle Brock. “I've already heard it's very—intriguing,” she added with a wink.

Fellin was getting no closer to a duel and the gawkers were in his garbage, and so to hasten his day he said, “If you're done with your subaquatic emissions, I'm looking to complete my purchase.”

Gamble rolled his eyes and put away his conning tower. “So be it! I recommend Mike. He'll inherit my La-Z-Boy, and half of the TV Guide collection!”

“This seems to be the only ballpark available,” said Fellin, “so I'll take it.”

Spotle Brock snuck out to have a cigarette, but her lighter sparking in the shadow of the radio tower attracted the attention of Harvbold, whose lust for conquest had gone unabated, and so Harvbold chainsawed Spotle Brock in half. You'd think this would be a bad thing, and you'd be wrong, which just goes to show it's not worth thinking at all. Pixies are magical, obviously, so she just turned into two smaller pixies, Spotle and Brock, who began frolicking and singing pixie songs. Spotle sang some sort of generic song about wishes and sparkles and ponies, as pixies are wont to do—at least, those who've been classically trained—but counter-culture-addicted Brock sang something slapped together from random words, most likely about food and animals, and something turning into something else. They were two sides of the same coin—but the bus driver took exact change only.

“So,” said Harvbold, “that's the secret? Half plain, half trash, and together it makes—by God, it's the eternal wallaby!”

The eternal wallaby, Ankles Jackson, showed up right then, and he, too, had his eyes set on a couple of baronies—namely, the sidewalk in front of the casino and the dumpsters behind the drug store. Maybe Marvin Gardens, too, if he didn't get any railroads. He blew up a trumpet to rally his troops—two guys who both happened to be named Jim Clarkson—and ordered them to attack.

“See how the fiends are made of butter!” said Ankles. “This is our cue, or our queue—more's plenty to do the scuffle, and we'd be wise as bone pickers!” Ankles laughed, a subsonic laugh that no one could hear, and it echoed through the solid streets and left everyone with headaches and severe gastrointestinal distress—gastrodistressinal... never mind. There was a long line at the bathroom and it grew longer in between the seconds that never stopped coming.

Next, there started to be a lot more ninjas. Some of the battlers gathered about suspected they were all aligned in one group, like some mighty ninjish army, but the ninjas were all wearing different colors, and there was no record of a group of multichromatic acrobatic heroes, so this was as foolish a thought as any of Midgley's. As it turned out, it didn't matter anyway, because a volcano erupted and a lot of them got killed in the lava. Three farm poachers were watching, and, seeing an opportunity, leapt upon a dead Dodge Dart and claimed it in the name of the Third East Mercantile Division, a group that sought to unite their baronments by drawing straws, but they'd never been to art school, and so had to eat their feet. While this was happening, five trains played poker, each outlasting the last, until a sardonic dalmatian swirled up on a sushi boat, tailed by a university of piranhas, and the textile mill collapsed in a shower of applause and carcinogens. Nobody was watching the spelling bee channel anymore—there was way too much lettuce in the air.

So, as these and countless other battles popped up throughout Hoglistwune, Yonilicus was watching, writing down all the names in their special books, but there were so many names that it now seemed pointless to try to keep track. Everyone. Everyone was in the book now. It was easier to write down all the names that weren't written down.

“There's a villain's foot at play here,” said Yonilicus. “I'll use black paper and white ink to backwards-write the names of the innocent—if any are found.” They paced about from window to window, gazing forlornesquely from the fortress atop the parachuting 'falo. “Barons today, but what if they learn of counts, or earls, or viscounts? The mayorarchy would be in jeopardy!”

“I was promised amends,” said Odorless coldly, lounging noblishly on a pizza oven. He wanted more feathers in his cap, and they had not been delivered, and a cap as unadorned as he had did not suit such a prize-worthy head as his. “What's to be done? Let it be done sooner! My fair lands, patrolled by a barbarish sort of peasantry! It's unwashed to think about it.”

“Then dethink!” said Yonilicus. “We're due for a grander aim, at rates.” At last they put their books away in a nice jar, and put the jar under the desk, and put the desk under surveillance. “This pushes up the schedule uncomfortably, but there's a half-paved road awaiting out footfalls.”

“Oh, grand indeed!” said Odorless. The snail-clad supplicants came by with a fine merry-go-round in which to faint dramatically, but Odorless waved them away. Could they not see the pizza oven? Perhaps that was too new. At any rate, that merry-go-round was adorned in winter colors, bigods, and it would not do to see a true baron slumped in such a seat. “So, the planner has a plan? Let's have it divulged!”

Yonilicus threw wide their proboscises and said, “In the word, it's the real egression!”

“What—flight?” said Odorless, ghastfully. He leapt to his feet and those snail guys hovered nearby with a booklet of Christmas carols, just in case, but he paid them no heed—nor anything else. Odorless went to the cape store, tried on four capes, bought the second, came back, and then flang it from his shoulder dramatically and said, “That's parched!”

“I'll not sink with a stinking ship,” said Yonilicus. “Let the battle drink the city.”

“You divvy my duds?” said Odorless. “You canny machine! You've not a cop? Maybe a company of daffodil sellers? There's a battle we're leaving unjoined, and it'll join us, by spades!”

“Perceive!” said Yonilicus. They went over to the biggest filing cabinet and opened the top drawer, and took out a steak and a stake, and pounded the stake into the ground to hang a hammock from, and tossed the steak to a hungry puppy dog, who was a vegetarian and did not want the steak.

“I'll turn this around for thruppence on the bl'market!” cackled the hungry puppy dog, scampering into a gopher hole.

Odorless grew pale and an inch. “We are as mice before voles!” Winter colors or no, it was the merry-go-round after all. “Then, we're compressed more than is bearable! This makes ours a long road. Let's begin it at once! Say whither.”

“Oopertreepia!” said Yonilicus.

Now, Unitasker was here the whole time, and was sat on a stuffy shadow, and had spared no ear to the upperclassmen's rants, for these were low concerns of simpler folk, and his mind was on gooder heights. He was focused squarely on things that weren't there—Markerel, with a delivery of a Lopkit. A Lopkit! A real one! They guard secrets, undoubtedly. What could be in the boy's thoughts? What could he say of the come-back of—Oopertreepia? What? Its mention by the mayoral one was such a cutworthy word that it pulled Unitasker from his reverie, and he paid a tension.

“A place of too much!” Yonilicus propounded. “A place of all things! Oopertreepia, there's the ticket! A slice of that pie is worth its weight in bread and pudding! Let our teeth be sunk into it, and call this place other!”

“Now that is a grand prize,” said Odorless, “fit for one of nobility such as me.”

“As we,” said Yonilicus.

Odorless ignored that and said, “It's an exclusive course. Have you got an in? It's in shame that I say I don't.”

“I've my skulker,” said Yonilicus, “who's been gathering its secrets.” Yonilicus turned and strode over to Unitasker imperiously. “You've the key at last, I collect. Say the review now, if you will!” They stole the rest of the sunlight, and became expectant moreso.

Unitasker looked from Yonilicus to Odorless and back for a moment or two. Maybe three. This presentation was sprung warnlessly—in truth, he had made no efforts but to await Traycup's arrival. It was not worth his time pretending to gather information—Oopertreepia would brook no invasion. He knew that well enough.

“Secrets?” said Unitasker. “There's no point in trying.”

“Immaterial!” said Yonilicus. “You have instructions. You're to find us a way in. It's time we turned on this shoddy place and rehomed ourselves where we're better fitted!”

Unitasker only hid a portion of his contempt. “What? Think it through. That place makes itself unreachable purposefully—or at least, that's its usual rule. You have a poor plan, here—you know Oopertreepia's presence now is without precedent. Do you expect they came back to pick you up? Someone's there to hold the door open for you?”

“You're the doorman this time, knower!” said Yonilicus. “You've an order already—find it, know it, take it! Take the lead and do it in a person!”

“I've got other and better plans,” said Unitasker.

“You've got other and better orders,” said Yonilicus.

Unitasker thought, and relented. Indeed—there must be order.